And, were this veracious chronicle a piece of war-fiction woven by a romancer’s brain, Bertram Greene would have been standing on the deck that evening, looking his last upon the receding shores of the country wherein he had suffered and done so much.
On his breast would have been the Victoria Cross, and by his side the Woman whom he had Also Won.
She would have murmured “Darling!” . . . He would have turned to her, as the setting sun, ever obliging, silhouetted the wonderfully lovely palms of the indescribably beautiful Kilindini Creek, and said to her:
“Darling, life is but beginning.”
* * * * *
Facts being facts, it is to be stated that Bertram sat instead of standing, as the Madras moved majestically down the Creek; that on his breast, instead of the Cross, a sling with a crippled arm; and by his side, instead of the Woman, a Goanese steward, who murmured:
“Master having tea out here, sir, please?” and to whom Bertram turned as the setting sun silhouetted the palms and said: “Oh, go to hell!” (and then sincerely apologised.)
* * * * *
Captain Stott passed and recognised him, in spite of changes. He noted the hardened face, the line between the eyes, the hollowed cheeks, the puckers and wrinkles, the steel-trap mouth, and wondered again at how War can make a boy into a Man in a few months. . . .
There was nothing “half-baked” about that face.